


After All This

by ashallee



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Filling In the Gaps, Game of Thrones Spoilers, One chapter per episode, sansan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-02-09 22:41:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 10,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18647560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashallee/pseuds/ashallee
Summary: "He could hardly believe his eyes that Sansa Stark was standing there, that she wasn’t a ghost that haunted his thoughts. And she had always haunted his thoughts..."A (mostly) show-canon-based, filling-in-the-gaps of season 8. For SanSan.Because I love them.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a reunion-fic, but now it has a mind of it's own, because the more I watch old and new Sansan clips/read Sansan fics, the more inspired I get.

Sandor Clegane never thought he’d ever see Winterfell again.

But there he was, sitting on a horse and passing through the narrow roads that led to the castle that housed the Starks. He looked around him, taking a moment to see the changes from when he first road to Winterfell years before. The people who stared at him as he passed made him fidget in his seat, as there was no Hound’s helm to hide his face this time. The King and Queen he rode with were different too. The mood was sombre, dark; it reflected off the people as they watched the lines of Unsullied soldiers marching.

And it was so cold, he felt his fucking beard was going to freeze right off his face.

“I’ve never been to Winterfell,” Gendry commented, riding up beside him and looking around in awe. "It's bigger than I thought it would be."

“Keep your eyes in your head, boy,” Sandor growled. “There’s not much to see, from what I remember.”

They finally made it past the gates, and Sandor looked around again at the courtyard of Winterfell. “What did those fucking Boltons do to this place?” he murmured almost sadly, frowning at the state of disrepair the castle seemed to be in. Dismounting, he held the horse’s reins in his hand as he followed Jon Snow to a group of people who stood waiting to greet him, the King in the North, and Daenerys Targaryen, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Though why anyone would want to rule over this shit place was beyond him. Sandor was about to call for someone to take his horse to the stables, when he saw it.

A flash of red in the grey and white landscape that surrounded them.

Sandor felt as though someone had just tackled him to the ground as he watched Sansa Stark embrace her brother, an aloof smile on her lips as she greeted the dragon queen next. He could hardly believe his eyes that Sansa was standing there, that she wasn’t a ghost that haunted his thoughts. And she had always haunted his thoughts; there were days when a vision of her face brought him near tears, or he became so angry that he had to hack a tree to splinters with his sword. But Sansa was always something untouchable, something good and pure that he would surely mar with his blood-filled hands. He looked up at her again, half-hoping she would see him, and half-hoping she wouldn’t. He ducked behind a cart when he sensed that she saw him and tried to slip away from the crowd, not having the courage to face her.

"Clegane!" Gendry called after him. "Where are you going?"

"Fuck off." And he was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

Sandor left the forge, holding his dragonglass axe that Robert Baratheon’s bastard made for him. He was a good lad, he admitted reluctantly to himself, though a bit green. He had no idea what the little wolf-bitch saw in him. They were welcome to each other.

After about an hour of swinging the axe, testing the feel of it and begrudgingly impressed that Gendry crafted a good weapon, he was headed for the kitchens to swipe a bottle of wine or ale or whatever he could get his hands on to pass the cold night, when he heard a clear voice from behind him as he crossed the busy courtyard.

“Ser Sandor Clegane.”

Sandor froze, closing his eyes while debating whether to stay or flee. He hadn’t spoken to her in years, and he didn’t want to speak to her now. “I told you before, girl. I'm no Ser.” When he opened his eyes, Sansa Stark was standing before him.

“Sandor, then. Does that satisfy?”

She looked up at him, directly into his eyes, and Sandor realized it was the very first time she did so without any trace fear of him. Her eyes -- seven fucking hells -- her eyes were made of _ice._ It left him breathless. “What are you doing out here?”

"Walking. Taking in the night wind." She inhaled and closed her eyes for a moment, as if savouring the Northern air. "Watching you."

" _Me_?"

"I'd forgotten how good of a fighter you are. My brother says you fought bravely with him beyond The Wall."

"Not brave if you don't have a choice," Sandor mumbled.

"I don't think so. Courage is still courage."

A small, awkward silence passed as they stared at one another. Sandor was oblivious to the people around them, preparing weapons, gathering supplies, being fitted for armour. His eyes saw only her: the ghost of his past, the girl in his nightmares. The one person he thought of without any hate at all.

"You have not come to see me since arriving in Winterfell." Sansa smiled teasingly and tilted her head. “Do I really mean so little to you that you have not sought me out?”

“I…” He stuttered and blinked, surprised at her boldness. “I didn’t think _you_ wanted to see me.” Not after all the times he cornered her in the halls at King's Landing to frighten her. Not after that night at the Blackwater, when she found him in her room, drunk, stinking and caked with blood. Not after he told Arya that he should have fucked her sister bloody when he had the chance.

Sansa shook her head, her mouth twitching upwards. “You were who I wanted to see the most.”

“Don't flatter me,” the Hound scoffed, but only to hide his embarrassment.

"I'm not. It _is_ good to see you, Sandor."

They way she said his name made his mind reel. "And you, Lady Stark." He rolled his shoulders and straightened to his full height which, he saw, seemed less significant now that Sansa had grown taller. He stared down at her, taking in her appearance for the first time. Her Northern clothes did nothing to hide the fact that she was now a woman, and he swallowed thickly as his eyes roamed over her features. The famous Tully hair was braided in the Northern style, long and thick and the colour of flame. Her face had lost it’s childish roundness, and sharp cheekbones gave her a regal air. She was always a pretty child, he remembered. And if she was merely pretty as a girl, she was truly beautiful as a woman. Achingly so. But there was something hard about her now, something unflinchingly cold. Not a little bird, for she didn't seem made for songs anymore. The wolf had finally emerged, her innocence gone, just like he knew it would be after everything she'd been through.

He hated it and admired it all at once.

“What happened to you, Lady?”

Her eyes flashed briefly with pain. “You were always trying to teach me that the world is a harsh and cruel place. I've finally learned that lesson.”

He clenched his hands around the axe. “I heard...stories.” He thought she suffered at the hands of Joffrey, but that little shit was nothing compared to what he was told about Ramsay Bolton. If that fucker was still alive, Sandor would have hunted him down across all of Westeros for daring to even lay eyes on her. And Baelish was no better, following her about like a shadow. All dead now, so it didn't matter. But he couldn't quell the anger that suddenly rose within him. “I didn’t want you to learn this way.”

“Would you have taught me, then? If I had gone with you that night?”

Sandor shook his head. "It was better that you didn't come with me. I was a bloody fool for even asking it of you, and we'd probably both be dead. But I would have given my life to protect you."

"I know you would have," Sansa assured him, and he felt his heart shift in his chest at her words.

"You seem to have made it out alive on your own.”

"Alive, yes. But just barely. I'm like you, now. I'm scarred, only no one can see it because it's on the inside." She said it with a smile, and he knew what that smile meant, having worn it himself many times; it was bitter, self-loathing. He didn't like seeing her smile that way. "Come with me," she suddenly said, turning to walk from the courtyard. "I have something to show you."

It wasn't a request. Sandor frowned as he followed her into the castle, hating how he jumped at her command like a dog -- again. She led him through the maze of halls, past servants and guests who looked at him suspiciously until they reached a door. She opened it and stepped inside, motioning for him to do so as well, and he saw it was the lord's chambers.

Sansa's chambers.

"I shouldn't be here --" Sandor started, but she ignored him, closing the door and standing before him, her eyes blazing like fire.

"Why are you fighting for us, Sandor?"

Her question wasn’t what he expected. "I don't know," he answered honestly. Because it was the right thing to do? Because he had nowhere else to be? Because Berric was right, that Sandor had a greater purpose?

Sansa turned away and went to the chest at the foot of her bed, where she rummaged around inside, digging near the bottom until she turned back, holding a length of cloth.

“Do you know what this is?”

Sandor eyed the cloth suspiciously, trying to remember where he had seen it before. It must have been white at one point, but it was faded now and covered with grey streaks.

His Kingsguard cloak.

“I kept it all these years, hidden away from everyone. Do you know why?” Sandor could only shake his head dumbly as he reached out and touched the coarse white cloak, a sight he thought he would never see again. “It was a reminder that there are still good people in the world. You were _good_ to me. I will always be grateful for your help in King’s Landing.”

Sandor felt his hands shaking with an emotion he couldn’t quite name. “I _wasn’t_ good. I’m still not. I didn’t do enough to protect you from that little shit who dared to call himself a king. I failed you. I failed your sister.”

“Arya and I are here now because of you. You helped Jon beyond The Wall and helped him come back. You helped us all come _home_.” Sansa tightened her fists in the cloak. “You never served the Lannisters. You have only ever been truly loyal to the Starks. You are one of us, Sandor Clegane. A Northerner in your heart.”

Sandor held his breath, afraid that any sound would break whatever spell she had cast over them at the moment. He looked up from the garment and into her eyes, seeing her watching him with her face shining with pride for him, and he nearly broke down in tears. Instead, he nodded and stepped away from her, unable to speak. He was about to leave when a thought stopped him, and he turned back to her just as he reached the door.

"Lady?"

"Yes, Sandor?"

He stared at her, taking in the glory of the Lady of Winterfell as she held the cursed Kingsguard cloak, standing tall and strong and beautiful. "I said once before that I would have given my life fighting to protect you.” He bowed his head respectfully. “I still would."

She smiled at him with no bitterness at all. “Sleep well, Sandor Clegane.”

As he closed the door behind him, he realized with a jolt why he was fighting in the North. Berric didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about when he said there was a greater purpose, Sandor himself couldn’t give two shits about doing the right thing, and it wasn’t that he had nowhere else to go.

  
He was here to fight for _her_.


	3. Chapter 3

Sandor always stood very still before a battle. Mostly so no one would see how nervous he was, otherwise he’d be pacing a hole into the ground deeper than the moat.

He wasn’t nervous this time. He was scared shitless.

"Shouldn't you be at the front line, Hound?"

"Shouldn't _you_ be sitting around being useless, Dwarf?" Sandor growled at Tyrion Lannister, who suddenly approached him and watched the intensity of the preparations being made for the battle. People were running back and forth, some headed to fight, others to the crypts. Sandor himself was headed for the front lines, determined to meet the fuckers head-on. "There's going to be a lot of fire," Sandor groaned. "I fucking hate fire."

"Why are you here, then? I figured you'd be in Essos now, drinking yourself into a stupor."

Sandor shrugged. "There's something to fight for. Honour, duty...all that horseshit."

"Or some _one_." Sandor snapped his eyes down at the dwarf, who was watching him curiously. "Everyone else's minds are focused on the imminent battle, but yours is clearly occupied elsewhere. And if I can guess your thoughts correctly, she is well worth fighting to protect."

"Shut your mouth, or I'll kill you before those dead cunts can get to you."

Tyrion merely laughed, as though he was relieved for a moment of normalcy before everything went to shit. Then he grew serious. “You know, I've always respected you, Clegane. Even when the both of us suffered that nephew of mine, I knew you were more than just his dog.”

Sandor told himself that he didn’t care about the Imp’s opinion of him, but something inside took the praise to heart. Tyrion Lannister was the most tolerable of that cursed family -- which didn’t say much -- but the fact that he had been married to Sansa made him want to hack the little man to pieces, though he’d heard it said that he treated her well. For that, at least, he’d let Tyrion live. With a tight-lipped smile, Tyrion walked away, heading to gather a bag of supplies to bring into the crypts.

"Dwarf," Sandor rasped, causing Tyrion to stop in his tracks.

"What is it, Clegane?"

He looked back up at the battlements where Sansa stood with her sister, watching the horizon for death. The little bird looked terrified, as well she should. Sandor wished he was up there with them, but he was needed elsewhere. Besides, Arya was more than capable of protecting the both of them. But she would eventually have to go to the crypts, where it was safest. She should be there now. "Watch over her."

Tyrion smiled to himself. "Knew I was right. Of course, I'm always right. You're in love with the lady. Always have been." Tyrion tilted his head in amusement when Sandor didn't deny it. “You're facing the end, my good man. There is no more worthy cause to fight than the love of a woman. Especially _that_ woman."

Sandor twisted his mouth and sighed. "If I die, don't tell her that I…" He couldn't say that he loved her out loud. To admit it would seem like tempting fate, and he wouldn't risk the chance. "Don't tell her that I...care. I'd rather not have her know that an old, miserable prick like me was pining after her. She deserves some pretty little lordling who can rule by her side. Not me."

"And it's because of that, I can think of no one better than you."

Sandor gave a small defeated smile, holding out his hand for Tyrion to take. "We survived one fucker of a king. Let's hope we survive this one too."

Tyrion gave him a long, nervous look and shook his hand. "Good luck, Sandor Clegane."

He left the Hound standing alone, and Sandor watched as he took a wineskin and hauled it over his shoulder, headed for the crypts. When the dwarf was out of sight, he dared to look up once more at the Lady of Winterfell, her face set in a fearful apprehension, her breath coming out in little puffs of air and circling her head. Her eyes watched the army as they took position, and Sandor wished she would look down at him, just once, so she _would_ know how he felt. But she didn't.

He took one more moment to gaze at her, memorizing the shade of her skin, the exact hue of her bright red hair, her unflinching bravery as she stood on the battlements and looked death in the face.

" _Sansa_ ," Sandor whispered. Then headed to the fight.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 8x03 spoilers!

" _Where is she?_ " Sandor bellowed as he plowed through the oncoming surge of people that were running towards him, trying to get through the doors of the crypt. "Where is Lady Stark?"

The battle was won, but at what cost? There were barely enough people left to form an army to fight Cersei. The Dragon Queen was weeping over the body of Ser Jorah Mormont, Jon Snow walked among the countless dead bodies that covered all of Winterfell, and the little wolf-bitch had saved them all by stabbing the Night King before he could reach her brother. Beric was gone, the little bear Lady, the witch...all gone.

But Sandor's only thoughts were of Sansa. 

He clasped the arm of one of the women who ran past him, snarling despite the panic frozen on her face. “Where is the Stark girl?”

“Arya--”

“Not that one. The Lady Sansa --  _ where is she _ ?”

The woman turned her frightened eyes towards the crypt, and Sandor felt his heart drop into his stomach when he let her go. He started walking, feeling as though he was moving through water. His worst fear was that he would find Sansa lying in a pool of blood, her beautiful red hair fanned around her head like a halo, her lips blue with death. He was prepared to fall on his own sword if that was the scene waiting for him.

He stepped into the now empty crypt, looking at the bodies that lined the floor; women, children, old men, half-rotten corpses. But none were the face of the Lady of Winterfell.

Then he saw her.

She was sitting by her father’s tomb, huddled at the knees of his statue as though he were alive and she was a child again. Her shoulders shook, and Sandor could tell she was crying. 

“ _ Sansa _ ,” Sandor breathed in relief. She turned when she heard him, and her face broke even more as she stood and ran to him, flinging her arms about his neck, not caring that the blood of the dead completely covered him. He held her for a moment longer before pushing her away in a panic, running his hands over her face, her arms, to make sure she was in one piece. “Are you hurt, little bird?”

She shook her head and pressed herself to him again, clinging to his chest, heaving with heavy sobs as she cried out her pain and her fear. "I was so afraid. They came out of the  _ tombs _ \--"

"It's all right, Lady. It's over. You're safe."

Sansa pulled away, searching his face. "My brothers? Arya?"

"All safe too. Your sister more than anyone; she killed the Night King herself." Sandor let out a little fond chuckle. "She got better at killing people than I thought."

"And you?" She reached up to touch the scarred side of his face. "You're all right?"

He flinched at the contact from her gloved fingers, but nodded, putting his hand on hers. "Better now, knowing you're safe."

Sansa's eyes softened at his words. " _ Sandor _ …" She looked at his mouth, as though she was about to kiss him. He would die here and now if she did, he thought. This is what would kill him; not Wights, not fire. One kiss from her and he would be a fucking dead man. 

"My lady!" Someone suddenly called, making them both jump. "Lord Theon...he's dead!"

Sansa stepped away, her face crumbling in heartbreak. "No, not Theon…" She took Sandor's hand to lead him out with her, but he pulled her to a stop. 

"Go," he assured her, understanding. He saw fresh tears pooling in her eyes as she pressed a grateful squeeze in his large hands before fleeing from the crypt. Sandor sighed heavily, suddenly aching and tired when he turned and looked at the statue of Ned Stark.

He could have sworn the most honourable man in the Seven Kingdoms was smiling at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is going to be a "one chapter per episode" thing. I want to see if the writers will actually give us some sort of SanSan before I keep writing. Thank you for reading so far!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **8x04 spoilers!**

He didn't know what the fuck he was doing. 

Sandor watched as Sansa stood from the table, his eyes widening as she stared at him with a look he'd only ever seen other women give to handsomer men. No, it couldn't mean what he thought. She was drunk, surely. Why else would she look at him like she wanted him to...like she  _ wanted _ …

_ Seven fucking hells _ , he thought as he took a deep drink and followed her.

He didn't know where she had run off to, but that didn't stop Sandor from wandering around the keep like a man gone half-mad. 

The men and women who battled for Winterfell sat drinking and singing in their victory. Well deserved, Sandor thought, but they didn't have to annoy him about it. The ginger Wildling sobbed next to his shoulder, despondent as he mourned the loss Brienne of Tarth to Jaime Lannister. Well, he was no judge of men, but he thought she was fucking stupid to choose that one-handed prick over  _ this _ one. But again, what did he know? Giantsbane seemed to get over his heartbreak easily enough when one girl made him an offer. Her little friend wanted Sandor, but he roared at her to get away from him. The only thing he cared about was getting completely and thoroughly drunk.

Then Sansa appeared out of nowhere.

Their conversation played over and over again in his mind as he roamed the halls, but it wasn't so much the words as the looks Sansa gave him as she sat across from the table.

_ "She could have made you happy for a little while." _

_ "There's only one thing that can make me happy." _

_ "And what's that?" _

_ Killing Gregor _ , he wanted to say.  _ Giving my brother what he has coming. Running a sword through his chest and making sure he really dies this time. _

_ "That's my fucking business,"  _ he'd shot back instead, but he wasn't able to scare her anymore. He watched her face and realized that there was one other thing he wanted, one more thing he wanted more than killing the Mountain. One thing he had nearly died for while fighting to protect it. 

Her.

And now here he was, trying to find the Little Bird in this damned castle when he didn't even know if she truly wanted to be found by him. He stopped one of the serving women as she walked past with pitchers of wine, demanding to know where the Lady of Winterfell was. The woman turned and nodded to the last door at the end of the hall, and Sandor felt rooted to the spot. He had faced the dead twice, he had stared his brother in the face and called him an ugly fucker, he had ridden a dragon, and he had braved flames in battle many times over.

Only know, was he truly scared.

He swiped a pitcher from the woman, who shrieked and ran from him. He took a long drink, trying to finish the wine before making the few more steps to her door, and raised his hand to knock. But before he could, the door slowly opened and Sansa stood before him, an amused expression on her face.

"Come in," she said, a little breathlessly. And he did. Her hair was unbound, falling loose around her shoulders and she had taken off the black leather bodice she wore earlier. There was a small pitcher on the table and two cups, one which she took herself. "I'd offer you wine, but you seem to have your own," she mused, looking pointedly at his hands.

Sandor flushed before drinking the rest of the pitcher and setting it down. "You've no wish to celebrate with the rest, Lady?"

"No need for that when I have all I need here." Sansa stood before the fire. “Besides, a little private revelry is more suited to us, don’t you think?”

Sandor blinked. “ _ Us _ ?”

“Sandor,” she said his name with a caress and exasperation all in one breath. “You’ve never been a fool. Don’t be one now.” She drank what was left of her cup and placed it back on the table, all without taking her eyes from him. “I’m not going to flirt like those girls in the hall, I’m not going to bat my eyelashes at you and play games with your mind. I know what I want, and I want  _ you _ .”

He felt all his breath leaving his body at her words and he thought he wouldn’t be able to stand upright any longer when Sansa strode across the room and took his face in her hands, forcing him to look into her eyes. He tried to push away from her, but the strength he felt in her bare fingers prevented him from going anywhere. “I’ve never...I don’t…”

Her brow furrowed in confusion. “You don’t want me?”

“I  _ do _ ,” he groaned, unable to fight the truth any longer. “Fucking hells, I do. I always have; when you were a little bird in King’s Landing, I wanted nothing more than for you to look at me like you do now. But--” 

He felt her press a finger to his lips, stopping his words, and Sandor took another moment to just stare at her. Sansa radiated light; it shone all around her like a halo and it blinded him with its purity. He didn't want to hurt her, like she had been hurt by everyone, but she surprised him by taking his hands in hers and placing them on her chest. He felt her heart racing, the hammering beat of her blood pulsing at his fingertips. 

“ _ Sandor _ ,” she whispered, and he heard the depths of her need for him. That she wanted  _ him _ , an old, broken man. It was suddenly too much, and he brought his lips to hers, clasping the back of her head, pulling her to him. She ran her fingers through his hair, responding to him with an equally feverish need until he broke away and smiled. He smiled a genuine smile for the first time in months. 

“Sansa.” He said her name like it was a prayer to whatever fucking gods were listening, savouring the taste of her lips and the heat of her skin as he held her. She smiled up at him too, running her hand down his jaw as she moved to kiss him again, but he held her away. There was something he had to say to her, something he wanted her to know before anything got any further. “Sansa, I can’t stay here with you.”

Sansa scoffed and tossed her hair over her shoulder. "I don't care if Jon walks through that door right now." She mistook his meaning, he realized. “No one will  _ dare  _ say a word against this, not after I've waited so long---”

“No,” he shook her slightly. “I mean in Winterfell. I’m not staying here. There’s something I have to do.” He felt her tense in his arms, his flame-haired beauty going rigid at the thought of him leaving. “I might not come back.”

She sighed. “Your brother.” 

Sandor nodded, running his hands up and down her arms. “I had planned to leave for King’s Landing in the morning. This won’t change that.” Sansa grew suddenly quiet, and Sandor wondered if she would make him go. If he did leave, he would face his brother with the memory of her warm lips on his and that would be enough. More than enough. But Sansa surprised him once more when she put her hands on his face again, lowering him so their faces were mere inches from each other.

“You told Arya once that you wanted one happy memory from me. I was too young to give you one then. Let me give it to you now.”

The Hound felt his hands ball into fists, curling into her sleeves, as he sputtered in rage. “That little bitch  _ told  _ you--”

“And I’m glad she did,” Sansa let out a little giggle at his reaction before her eyes turned serious. ”Since leaving the capital, I have known many men. Men who’ve hurt me, men who’ve helped me, and even the ones who helped me did so for their own gain. Now, all I know is  _ this _ ,” she stroked his scarred cheek, trailing her hand along his thick beard, “this is the face of a man who is worthy of me.”

Sandor felt tears falling at her words but didn’t give a damn. She wiped his cheek with her thumb before she began kissing the edge of his jaw and running her hands in his hair again. He responded by tracing one hand down her spine and cupping the back of her head, moving his lips to hers. She moaned unashamedly, and he could feel the heat of her even through their thick clothes.  _ Damn these Northerners and their fucking cold _ , he thought, and then he felt her fingers moving to the buckles on his doublet, as if she could hear him. His hands roamed to her hair, running his fingers through the length of it, feeling the thick red waves as she finished her work, and he shrugged out of the leather and shivered even though he still wore a tunic and breeches. Then she stepped away from him to begin removing her own clothes. 

“No,” he murmured. “Let me.”

She turned her back to him and moved her hair away so he could unclasp the dress, but not before he saw the shy smile as she flicked her eyes at him over her shoulder. He savoured the task, still not believing that he wasn’t dreaming. He expected someone to wake him at any moment, or interrupt what was happening.

_ If that fucking wildling comes looking for me and ruins this, I’ll rip his tongue out. _

When he was done, she let the dress fall into a pool around her feet, and he looked his fill as she stood in her smallclothes, because he could. Because she  _ let  _ him. Now that she was no longer to be used as a pawn, as a broodmare, she had her pick of all the men in Westeros. 

And she chose him.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, shivering again. She didn’t seem to feel the chill at all, and when she pressed her entire body against the length of him, her skin didn’t feel cold either. 

She felt like fire.

“Love me, Sandor,” she whispered into his mouth as he clung to her. “Even if it’s just for tonight.”

“No.” He tightened his arms around her, leading her to the large bed behind them. “Not just for tonight.”

Sansa smiled again, her eyes melting like ice in spring. “For always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crumbs, we got. CRUMBS.  
> But we'll take what we can get because we're starving.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **8x04 spoilers!**

He woke early the next morning.

They entire keep was quiet except for the scurrying of a few servants who were no doubt cursing last night’s revellers and the mess they surely made. He saw grey sunlight streaming through the window as he lay in the bed of the Lady of Winterfell, the lady herself burrowed under the furs next to him. Smiling to himself, he rested on one elbow as he gazed down at her. A pale shoulder rose and fell and he kissed her there, chuckling when she shifted and pursed her lips in her sleep. He sighed at the memory of her touch, her mouth, the sounds that she made as he showed her how much he loved her. She had cried out his name in the dark like a battle cry, and he had said her name over and over until his voice turned hoarse. Afterwards, they had lay staring at each other across the pillows, flushed and breathing heavily.

 

_ "Warmer now?" She smiled and he let out a barking laugh as he moved close, resting his large hand on her thigh.  _

_ "Burning. Never thought I'd like burning." His thumb traced circles on her skin. "Could get used to this." _

_ Sansa threw her leg over his, tangling them together. "I never thought I'd end up like this with you." _

_ "And?" _

_ "And...I don't want you to leave." _

_ He dropped his gaze to her mouth, feeling guilt settle over him. "Little Bird, I --"  _

_ She kissed him, cutting him off. "But you have to go, Sandor. I wish you wouldn't, but you have to. If you don't, you'll resent me for denying you the revenge you've been craving your whole life." _

_ "I would never resent you," he said truthfully, and took her in his arms again. There were no other words after that. _

 

He shook his head now, still watching her.  _ Fuck the Seven, fuck the Old Gods and fuck the Lord of Light _ , he thought viciously. They were cruel to lay this choice before him; to finally claim his revenge against Gregor, or to live the rest of his days with the woman who claimed his ugly heart. He hated the Dragon Queen, Cersei, Jon Snow, the Imp, Kingslayer, all of them, for putting the entire country through all this shit; petty squabbles for a big fucking chair.

Most of all, he hated himself because he knew what his choice would be.

He left Sansa sleeping as he dressed quietly, pulling on his boots and gathering his clothes. She shifted again, sighing and turning over, and Sandor hoped she wouldn't wake up to see him go; if she did, he would never leave, he knew it. But she slept on, and he leaned over her, brushing a strand of red away from her cheek. 

"Sansa," he murmured. "I'm not good at this sort of thing, and I don't want to fuck it up by saying pretty words that don't mean anything, but…" He pressed a kiss to her mouth, breathing her in for what could be the very last time. "I love you. And if I manage to put my brother into the ground, I'll crawl on my knees if I have to, just to come back to you. But if I die, don't mourn me. Marry, have children. Be happy. For once in your life, Little Bird, be happy."

Sandor let his eyes caress her one last time. Every part of her, every invisible scar, every imperfection would be in his thoughts until the day he died. 

He kissed her once more, and left.

He didn't turn back.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter written really quickly, so it's not that great.

Bran Stark was up and sitting by the fire in the hall when Sandor was ready to leave. He looked around, wondering if anyone had left the wheelchair-bound boy there and forgotten to bring him back to his rooms. Bran didn’t seem to notice Sandor, so he did his best to move quietly across the hall.

“Sandor Clegane.”

 _Shit_.

Sandor cleared his throat and turned guiltily to the heir of Winterfell, who stared at him with those blank eyes that unnerved so many. Sandor hadn’t bothered to ask anyone what was wrong with the boy; he’d figured everyone under this roof had seen things that changed them, and they were bound to be different than what they used to be.

Though the things this boy had _seen_ seemed a bit too fucking much for his cynical self to believe.

“My Lord,” he mumbled, trying to keep things formal and quick. The sooner he left this place, the better.

“You’re leaving,” Bran said, his voice emotionless. “You’re going to King’s Landing...to kill your brother.”

Sandor twisted his mouth, annoyed that everyone knew what his motives were. “And?"

Bran said nothing, just turned his face to stare at the fire. Sandor scoffed dismissively and was about to turn to leave, when Bran spoke.

“It was yellow.”

“What?” He turned back to Bran, who was still watching the flames.

“The knight that you held when your brother burned you. Clegane yellow. It was lost in the fire.”

Sandor felt an odd chill make it’s way down his spine at the boy’s words. _How the fuck did he know?_

“I see things,” Bran reminded him, the barest hint of amusement showing on his face at Sandor’s expression. “The past, the present...the future.”

“You see the future?” Sandor’s hand flew to the sword hilt at his side as a reflex, but also to clutch at something to steady his emotions. “Do I do it? Do I kill him?”

Something in Bran’s face shuttered, and he turned away again. “I cannot tell you that. I can only see some things. The future always changes because of what we do in the present.”

The Hound huffed, annoyed at the boy’s elusiveness. _Why the fuck bring it up at all, only to deny the me answer?_ He was about to tell him so, but then Bran stopped all his thoughts with his next words.

“Sansa will miss you. She’ll be angry that you didn’t say goodbye, but she’ll understand.”

Sandor held his breath until it hurt, and then exhaled slowly. “Will I ever see her again?” And he regretted the question the moment he said it, afraid that the lordling would tell him no. If Sandor marched to King’s Landing knowing that he would never again lay eyes on Sansa, he would face Gregor in a half-hearted battle, which he was sure neither of them wanted. He owed his big brother a real fight, one where he could serve the Mountain the justice he had long deserved. But the boy gave a small, mysterious, if sincere smile, and gave a shake of his head. Sandor couldn't tell if it meant a yes or a no.

“You've always watched over her. Arya too. My father would be grateful to you."

“Didn’t do it for him,” Sandor muttered, flushing from embarrassment. There was nothing he could hide from this strange child, he realized, and it unnerved him that every secret he had could be unearthed at any moment. But Bran just sat there, still staring, still bafflingly _cryptic,_ with his dark eyes and empty face, and Sandor suddenly wanted to rage at him, if only to see some sort of reaction from the Three-Eyed Raven.

Or whatever the fuck the Stark was calling himself now.

Sandor grunted when nothing more was said and walked away, frustrated and feeling guilt settle on his shoulders. Just as he reached the door, he heard the boy speak once more before Sandor left Winterfell for good.

“Go in peace, Sandor Clegane,” Bran Stark said softly. “With my family’s thanks...and with Sansa’s love.”

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place between and during 8x04 and 8x05.
> 
> **Update: Sansa is the Red Wolf, not the She-Wolf. Oops.**

They called Robb the Young Wolf of Winterfell.

Jon was the White Wolf. She had heard Arya was called the Wolf-Bitch. But Sansa only recently heard the name that the people of the North had given _her_ , and she allowed a small, proud smile stretch on her face at the thought of it while she stood in her usual spot on the battlements.

The Red  Wolf of the North.

Sandor would be proud of her, too, if he ever heard people calling her that.

It had been weeks since he left her, stealing away in the early morning after their time together. Arya was gone too, leaving a certain blacksmith-turned-Lord of Storm’s End broken hearted. Sansa had paced in Bran’s room, trying to suppress the rage that grew with each step.

 

_“Do they care so little for us?” She questioned aloud, angry at Arya for abandoning them. And it wasn't that Sandor left, it was that he didn’t say goodbye. It was as though what happened meant nothing to him. “He could have had the decency to at least wait--”_

_“If he waited, he would never have gone. You know this, Sansa.”_

_Sansa let a little growl of frustration escape because she_ did _know; she understood that Sandor had to go, that he had to leave her. But she wanted to see him in the morning, to see his large body next to hers as the sun rose higher in the sky. She wanted to tell him that she was a fool to think she could ever try to be happy without him. She wanted people to how proud she was to have him stand with her, to let them see her choice._

_She wanted Sandor, scars, heavy heart and all._

_“He loves you. He always has,” Bran said, and Sansa stopped pacing to look at her brother, who watched her curiously, the smile he suddenly gave her sending a little shiver across her skin. She hadn’t seen his face soften that way before, not since he returned as the Three-Eyed Raven, and between one heartbeat and the next she saw the little brother she thought she’d lost forever._

_And that’s when she_ knew _._

 

Brienne of Tarth found Sansa on the battlements now, but the young woman stood unmoving, her eyes on the gate even as she heard her sworn shield approach.

“My Lady,” Brienne ventured, but Sansa still ignored her. “My Lady, please. You must come inside.” Silence. “If not for your own health, think of--”

“Ser Brienne,” Sansa suddenly interrupted, her voice having an edge that brooked no further arguments. “I do not feel the cold. I am quite alright.”

Sansa heard Brienne sigh in defeat and her heavy footsteps came closer until she finally stood next to the Lady of Winterfell. After watching the people below for a moment longer, the knight cleared her throat.

“Still no word, My Lady.”

A quick nod of thanks to Brienne before Sansa went back to watching the gate. When she finally heard the warrior leaving, Sansa exhaled slowly. She was not cold. She would _never_ be cold here; she was a daughter of the North, with ice in her veins and snow in her heart.

Her child would never be cold either.

 

_“My Lady,” Brienne had sputtered in disbelief, disgust clear on her face when Sansa sat with her privately in her rooms that morning. “Are you certain?”_

_Sansa nodded. "It is still early, but yes." She watched as the knight's eyes widened in horror. "Speak your mind, Ser Brienne, for your expression has already told me how you feel."_

_"Did the Hound force you, My Lady?" She tightened her grip on the hilt of her sword, looking ready to hunt down the man who dared harm the Lady of Winterfell. "Because I'm sure the Maester can help you to...take care of--"_

_"No." The word was final, cutting off what Sansa knew would be Brienne's suggestion. She understood that it came from a place of concern, but she grew angry at the thought. She rested her hand on her still-flat stomach, and she felt her teeth showing in a snarl, already fiercely protective of the new life inside her._

 

A Red Wolf indeed. 

She had to tell Brienne, of course. She would have sent a raven to Jon, but he had enough to keep himself occupied without having to worry about his sister’s bastard. _His cousin’s bastard_ , Sansa nearly corrected herself before she shook her head. Jon will _always_ be her brother, no matter his true parentage. And he would understand everything, having thought he was a bastard his entire life. He would not turn her away, nor the child. Sansa also knew that he would not judge her for who the father was, for he had grown to like Sandor in their very limited acquaintance. The fact that the Hound had watched over Sansa when she was alone in King’s Landing was enough for Jon look on him favourably. He may be surprised, but Jon would never shame her. He is too much like her father to do that.

Maester Wolkan confirmed it the weeks after Sansa made the discovery, after telling him that she had not bled when she should have and that she had been feeling slightly ill, but with everything that was happening, she had paid no mind to it. The Maester offered advice on what she could do to ease the very early stages of pregnancy, which would be troublesome for most women, but his words only bluntly pierced her thoughts. Her mind was swirling with questions and disbelief.

Sansa Stark stood in the home of her youth, carrying the child of the last man in the world she ever thought would give her one.

And she smiled, realizing she was _happy_.

After all these years, she never thought she would be able to become pregnant; it was the one thing she was thankful for during her so-called marriage to Ramsay. She couldn’t count the days she spent silently praying to any gods that would take pity on her to keep her barren, never to bear a child that would carry on the evil line that was House Bolton.

 _Barren_. The finality of the word echoed in her heart, and she thought of the effect it would have on the situation around her, now that it was no longer true.

If Bran would not take the seat of the Lord of Winterfell, if Arya never came back from King's Landing, if Jon married Daenerys as Tyrion hoped, the burden of succession in the North would fall to Sansa. But if she hadn’t become pregnant after Ramsay, she had thought she would never bear children. It was a fate that would have devastated her younger self, but was now seen as a cold truth: the Stark name would die and her family would be no more, and she had accepted that. But Brienne had asked her what she would do, now that she carried the hope of her family within her.

 

_"Your marriage to Lord Tyrion had been annulled before, My Lady?” Sansa nodded to confirm the fact when Brienne questioned her. “Then you will have to marry again, to legitimize the child as heir to Winterfell. The Lords of the North will demand it."_

_"If Sandor Clegane returns, we will wed the moment he wishes it," Sansa declared. "I will have no other but him."_

_Brienne twisted her lip, as if considering her next words. "And if he doesn't come back?"_

_Sansa tried to ignore the slash of panic in her chest. "My child will always be a Stark of Winterfell."_

 

Sansa placed a loving hand on the barely-there mound hidden under her cloak as she watched the gates from the battlements, her thoughts returning to the present. She wondered what Sandor would say, if he knew, trying to imagine the look on his face when she tells him she is carrying his child. Would he be angry? Perhaps at first. Would he reject the babe? She doesn't think so. He would make a good father, she realized suddenly, picturing him carrying a red-haired boy on his shoulders, or a dark haired little girl sleeping against his wide chest. The images become too painful for Sansa to think about, for she doesn't even know if Sandor is alive.

And she knows better than to hope another man she loves would survive the capital.

When Brienne appeared again, Sansa noticed her steps seem more hurried than before.

“A raven, My Lady, just arrived from the capital.”

And judging from the look on the knight’s face, the news would not be of victory.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is still going to be somewhat show-canon, but in the way that I hoped it would have gone.
> 
> D&D who? Season 8 what?
> 
> In the immortal words of Mariah Carey:  
> "I don't hear you, I don't see you, you don't exist to me."


	9. Chapter 9

 

_Sandor Clegane is dead._

 

The thought echoed in the unending darkness of his mind, but that wasn't the only thing. He also heard voices. They were dull sounding, like he was underwater, but he still heard them.

 

_...a miracle..._

 

_...found among the rubble…_

 

_...still breathing, can you believe it…_

 

 _Seven fucking hells!_   He wanted to holler in rage. Couldn’t they leave a dead man to rest in peace? Death was supposed to be silence. A void. It was supposed to be nothing. At least that's what Jon Snow had said.

Maybe this was hell, instead. His own personal hell where people would annoy him for eternity, just by talking all the time.

 

_...better hurry...the Queen will come any moment..._

 

 _Fuck the Queen_ , Sandor wanted to tell the voices, but nothing came. He tried to remember which queen he hated more, Cersei or the Dragon one, but then decided it didn’t matter. They could both rot for all he cared.

The voices went away and he nearly sighed in relief until he felt something cool on his forehead, and the truth came to him immediately like a jolt of lightning.

He wouldn’t be able to _feel_ anything if he was dead, would he? He wouldn’t be able to _hear_ anything, or even think any thoughts if he was dead, either.

Which meant he _wasn’t_ fucking dead.

And that was when he felt the pain.

His entire body felt broken. When he tried to move his hands, he had to bite his tongue to keep from crying out in agony. He’d never felt pain like it before, not even after the little Wolf-Bitch left him for dead on that hillside. He hoped she was still alive; maybe he could convince her to have mercy on him this time.

He felt the coolness on his brow again and tried to open his eyes, groaning with the strain of it, and he managed to see the blurred image of a figure looming above him. A figure in black with a pale face framed in a curtain of hair, the exact shade of the fire he plunged himself into.

“ _Sansa?_ ” Sandor managed to say, his voice hoarse as he tried to focus.

 

Then the world went dark again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very, very, very small chapter while I'm still working away on this thing...almost there.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank you guys for reading and reviewing! I really, really love you all for it!
> 
> This story has kind of turned into something bigger than I expected because Sandor and Rory have both kind of taken over my life at the moment, and I feel like we were robbed of a happy (or happier) ending for both Sansa and Sandor. 
> 
> Not gonna point fingers...
> 
> They know who they are.

* * *

 

The next time he opened his eyes, it was because he felt as though he was being thrown about. He groaned in pain, though it wasn’t as bad as he’d felt the first time. He tried to sit up, but a steady hand pressed down on his shoulder.

“Don’t,” a voice said. “You’ll make it worse.” He knew who it was before he looked up at her.

“Lady Stark,” Sandor murmured, trying to at least lift himself to rest on his elbows. Seven fucking hells, he ached. But pain was good, for it meant he would mend. “Where are we?”

“Nearly home.”

 _Home?_ He wondered where Sansa meant by 'home'. For her, it was North. For him…

He had no idea where.

He shivered when he realized it was cold, his breath appearing in little tufts and he saw Sansa was smiling at him, her eyes sparkling with laughter.

“Winterfell,” she answered his unspoken question, as though she heard his thoughts. “I’m sorry I could not make you more comfortable for the journey.”

Sandor looked down at himself and saw he was lying flat on a bed of furs in a jostling carriage, with his feet sticking out the back because he was too tall to fit inside completely. He was also covered up to his neck with at least three warm blankets, his head resting on some sort of cushion and he felt a deep flush spread across his face. He was uncomfortable, lying there as useless as a babe. What made it worse was having _Sansa_ tend to him. He hated her seeing him that way, vulnerable and weak.

“I finally get to take care of you,” she mused, and he groaned miserably. Her face immediately changed into an expression of worry. “Are you in much pain?”

“No,” he lied. “It’s just...this is fucking _embarrassing_.”

Sansa laughed and he felt his mood lift a little at the sound. He’d never heard her laugh before, he realized; the smiles he’d seen from her in the past were always laced with sadness. Now she laughed as though every one of her burdens was lifted from her shoulders. She looked different too, the way her face curved and even the way she simply sat next to him. She seemed to have changed even more since he saw her last, and he couldn’t quite tell how.

“What happened in King’s Landing?” Sandor asked instead, mildly curious about whose arse now sat on that monstrosity in the Red Keep. Sansa told him all that had happened; Jon Snow killed the Dragon Queen after she had burned the entire city to the ground and he was exiled to the wall. Jaime and Cersei Lannister dead, Tyrion was still the Hand.

And _Bran fucking Stark_ was King of all Westeros.

"How in the seven hells did he manage that? From a cripple to King of the Seven Kingdoms."

"Not seven." She sounded a little smug, and rightfully so, he thought. 

“Managed to get the North for yourself, did you?” He chuckled at the surprised look on her face. “Always knew you were meant to be a queen. You’ll do well, my Lady.”

Sansa tilted her head and her eyes sparkled mischievously. “Your Lady? Is that all I am to you?”

Sandor watched as she moved down from her seat to sit next to him. If he felt uncomfortable before, it was nothing compared to now as she was practically leaning over him, her face so close to his while she rested a hand on his chest. He was in no condition to do anything about it, no matter how much he wanted to. Nor was this the place to pick up where they left off.

His eyes flickered to her mouth and he cleared his throat awkwardly. “My brother--?”

“Dead,” Sansa informed him, not bothering to elaborate. Sandor let out a weary sigh. “You don’t seem too happy about it,” she noticed, and he glanced up quickly.

“Been wanting to kill him all my life. But now that I’ve finally done it, I don’t feel like anything like I thought I would.” He looked away, trying to put into words how he felt. “I’m wondering if it was worth it.”

“This from the man who once told me that killing is the sweetest thing there is?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time I was wrong.” Sandor had to chuckle at her teasing tone, but then grew serious. “I should have listened to my own advice when I told your sister to go home. If I did, I wouldn’t be lying here half dead.”

Sansa smirked. “What would you be doing instead?”

 _S_ andor nearly said something crude, but caught himself. He didn’t dare let his thoughts turn that way. But Sansa stared back at him, her eyes sharp and knowing, and he knew she wanted him. Seven hells, he wanted her too. He held his breath as she leaned forward, waiting for her lips to reach his.

Suddenly, the carriage came to a halt and Sansa moved back to her seat while he cursed under his breath. He heard horses neighing and shouted orders to prepare for the arrival of the Queen in the North. Before the doors of the carriage swung open, Sansa pressed a gloved hand to Sandor’s cheek, her face softening with tenderness.

“We’re home.”

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still can't believe how out of control this story has gotten. I did NOT mean to keep it going! It was supposed to stop a long time ago! This ship is just sailing on and on and on...
> 
> Thank you all for reading and leaving kudos/reviews!

 

Sandor’s face had turned red with embarrassment when Sansa announced where he would be staying now that he was back in Winterfell.

“Your Grace,” he started to object, but Sansa silenced him with a withering look. She took advantage of the fact that he was too weak to argue with her, and he felt a little humiliated that someone of his size -- not to mention his reputation -- was being ordered about like a child. And by the girl _he_ once ordered about.

“Prepare the chamber,” she commanded the steward. “And find a surgeon. He will have the best of care as long as he is in Winterfell.”

Sandor would have laughed at the way the servants scurried away like rats if he wasn’t so annoyed. Laid out on a makeshift stretcher, it took six soldiers to carry him into the keep from the carriage, and he made sure to let them know he wasn’t happy about it -- “ _If you fucking drop me, I’ll make sure to bash your heads in once I’m out of here!” --_ Sansa had urged them to carry him directly to her own bedchamber, ignoring the surprised looks of her people and acting as though it was the most natural thing in the world. There would definitely be talk by the end of the night, and he could practically hear the whispers that travelled through the keep. _The Red Wolf has taken a dog into her bed._ The Red Wolf. That’s what the people called Sansa now. He smiled as he felt a swell of pride for her at that, before feeling his hands shake with anger at the inevitable gossip that the people would spread about their Queen. But Sansa seemed not to care one whit, and if it didn’t bother her, then he supposed he would just have to grow used to the curious glances that came his way.

Once he was settled in the bed, Sansa didn’t stay; she had some letters to write and other things to look after. He wouldn’t admit out loud that he was disappointed she wouldn’t be with him, but when she pressed the tiniest kiss to his forehead before leaving, he found himself begrudgingly accepting whatever help she issued while she was away. Besides, the bed was comfortable, the room was warm, and he had wine on the table next to him to help dull the pain.

So he slept.

The sun was still high in the sky when Sandor woke, which meant it was still fairly early in the afternoon. He heard his bones creaking as he stretched, already feeling better than he had in days. Years, really. He sighed in contentment, closing his eyes again, when he felt a strange feeling.

Like he was being watched.

“You look like shit.”

Sandor sat up quickly, but then cried out in the pain at his side. Wincing, he slowly moved so he was propped up against the pillows to find Arya Stark standing at the foot of the bed, staring at him.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” He growled. “Trying to scare me to death?”

Arya tilted her head, a dangerous killer masked in the guise of a little girl in winter furs. “I can’t believe you’re alive.”

“Me either.” Sandor shifted to prop a pillow higher. “Makes me wonder what it’s going to take for me to die. The fire didn’t do it, that blonde bitch downstairs didn’t do it, my brother didn’t do it. Maybe _you_ can put my out of my misery one day?”

“Wouldn’t even need to ask.” Arya smiled. “I’m leaving tomorrow, you know.”

“Aye, I heard. Going off on an adventure, and all that. I suppose you need a break from all the fighting and being a hero and all that shite.”

She tilted her head, looking him up and down as he pulled the fur coverlet higher against his chest. “I’m glad you’re not dead.”

Sandor huffed, but felt a grin growing at her sincerity. “Going soft on me, girl?”

“Maybe.” Arya shrugged and started moving around the bed. “You, after all, were the one who didn’t want me to end up a miserable old prick like you.”

“I’m not miserable. Do I look miserable?”

“Always.” She kept walking, dragging her hand along the furs. “I see Sansa has made sure you’re comfortable.”

Sandor was suddenly wary at the change in her tone of voice. “She has.”

“You _look_ comfortable...where the Queen of Winterfell now sleeps. In my _father’s_ bed.” When Sandor opened his mouth, Arya spoke over him. “I want to know why Sansa is suddenly happier, now that you’re back. I want to know why whenever someone speaks against you, she gives them a look like she would have them beheaded on the spot.” Arya stopped, now standing beside him. “I’ve spent more time with you than anyone else in Westeros, so don’t think I can’t tell when you’re lying. Tell me the truth.”

Sandor locked eyes with the Stark girl, who may as well have held a dagger to his throat as she asked him about her sister. He was relieved, in a sense, to finally have this happen; he expected it much sooner, like when they were on the road to King’s Landing, headed for their supposed deaths. But Arya had revenge on her mind at the time, and a lust for blood in her eyes. Now, she looked as though she would run him through if he gave her the wrong answer.

He’d forgotten how this wolf pack was protective of their own.

“You want the truth, girl?” He barked, suddenly angry. He may be a dog, but he had some sense of honour, whether Arya thought so or not. “Your sister is the best thing I’ve known in this pathetic life of mine. I would _die_ to protect her, I would serve her until the last of my days if she’d have me. Did you know I fucked her, the night before you and I left for the capital? More than once.” He wouldn’t have called it ‘fucking’ on any other occasion, but he took some pleasure in the fact that Arya’s jaw tensed and her eyes sparked with rage. “Didn’t force her, if that’s what you’re thinking. She _wanted_ me. Why the fuck she did, I have no idea. But I love Sansa, alright? Always have, always will. So if that’s why you finally stick a fucking knife in my chest, because the Hound is in love with your sister, then bloody well get on with it!”

Arya continued staring at him, both of them waiting to see who would break first. Then, to his surprise, her mouth stretched into a wide smile as she propped herself up to sit next to his leg.

“I figured as much. I just wanted to hear you say it.”

Sandor felt his mouth gaping open. She was _playing_ with him the entire time? “You little --”

“I should be angry about this, but I’m not. Not really. Sansa’s liked worse men than you. She’s been married to worse men than you.” Arya patted his leg gently, mindful of his pain. “I know you’ll be better than any of them.”

“You giving me your blessing, girl?” Sandor twisted his lip and looked away, still annoyed that Arya got the confession out of him. “I don’t want or need it. Neither does your sister, so bugger off if that’s what you’re trying to do here.”

Arya smirked. “You’re right. Sansa has earned the right to make her own choices. And if her choice is you…” She shrugged. “Well, you know what I’m capable of if you ever hurt her.”

Sandor tried not to gulp nervously as she glared at him. As proud as he was of the little Wolf-Bitch, he didn’t want to end up on her list again. But if her only concern was whether or not he would be good to Sansa, she had nothing to worry about.

“If something ever happens to her because of me, I’ll be disappointed if you don’t come right back from wherever you’re going and finally put me in my grave.”

Arya lifted her chin, seemingly satisfied, before carefully reaching her hands around his neck. He startled for a moment, thinking she was about to stab him, but was shocked to feel her arms tightening. In a hug.

She was _hugging_ him.

“Take care of my family,” she whispered in his ear, and he thought he heard her voice tremble with emotion. He managed to sit up to return her embrace properly, holding the little girl close, thinking it may be the last time he would do so. He loved her, he realized; not in the same way as Sansa, but almost as a father loves his child. He smiled to himself at the thought. _If the Gods were ever mad enough to give me a daughter, I would have wanted her to be like you_ , he thought. Arya squeezed back as though she heard him.

“Goodbye, Sandor.” She untangled herself from him and hopped down from the bed, sprinting to the door, not looking back as she left.

Sandor would never tell anyone that he saw tears in her eyes.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was kind of inspired by Elizabeth Bennett's line to Jane in Chapter 4 of Pride and Prejudice: "... I give you leave to like him. You have liked many a stupider person." It's something I can definitely picture Arya saying to Sansa about Sandor.
> 
> Arya and Sandor needed another moment of closure before she left for 'West of Westeros', so that's the reason for this. More coming soon!


End file.
